


Splat!

by Vulgarweed



Series: The Bone Fiddle [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Appalachian AU, Bondage, Comeplay, Competition, D/s (both ways), Dirty Talk, Gunplay, Historical - 1970s, Hunting kink, Johnlock Roulette, Knifeplay, M/M, Object Insertion, Rimming, Rough Sex, Switching, “Non-con” Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides he <i>does</i> want to go hunting with John after all. But not for deer. (History tells us the first competitive game with paintball guns was played in 1981. The first large, well-organized, PG-rated, and heterosexual one, perhaps...)</p><p>Smutty coda to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/573857?view_full_work=true">The Bone Fiddle</a> (the story of how they met, how they caught a serial killer, and how they hooked up and shacked up in this AU 'verse; West Virginia, USA, 1973; Vietnam-vet!John). </p><p>This takes place about a month afterward. If you haven't read TBF, you can probably still understand this, because it's just a PWP about their kinky redneck sex games. Sherlock and John play much more RACK than SSC. (Consensual? Definitely yes. Safe and sane? Definitely not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splat!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [htebazytook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Bone Fiddle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/573857) by [htebazytook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook), [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed). 



**Pt. 1: The Splotchmarker**

 

John's skin broke out in gooseflesh as he turned towards the thin path of broken brown grass. The pale sun, veiled in thin clouds, helped a little; not too much glare.

Someone had come this way, and not too long ago at that. Was it his quarry? If so, he couldn't trust anything about it. The footprints, if there were any, could be the wrong size or the wrong direction – and it could be a bluff, or a double-bluff. Any illusion of a trail could be a decoy or a lure. Those were common tricks in 'Nam too, and the man he was hunting was no average Charlie.

John's strategy had been to stay close to cover, listen and look and sniff, and use one of the few qualities he was sure he had more of than his opponent: patience. But he also knew that strategy would probably be anticipated.

He had only taken one step closer to that questionable patch of grass when he felt a splattering sting across his upper back, and glanced back to see a red stain spreading from his shoulderblade –on the unwounded side, small mercies—to his neck. 

With a cry of triumph and the gun in his hand, Sherlock erupted from the previously-silent rhododendrons like a flock of furious birds--not even thirty feet away.

John froze. He _really understood_ the deer-in-the-headlights metaphor. He saw that wild, smug look. He knew he'd been beaten. But damned if he was going to...

His whole body jerked with a surge of adrenaline as he watched Sherlock running towards him. He couldn't just _stand._ He started running like a bat out of hell, sucking the cold mountain air into his lungs, aiming for the clearest path through the woods he could see at the edge of the field, and hearing Sherlock's laughter not far enough behind him.

Pointless, of course. John had already lost this round. Sherlock's legs were so much longer, and John had so little sincere desire to escape his fate. But he couldn't just _surrender._

He'd almost made it to the edge of the woods before Sherlock slammed against him and tackled him, and John's face hit the leafy ground, hands flying out just barely in time to cushion his fall a little.

 _Dammit,_ John thought. _I could've run faster if my dick wasn't already getting hard._

***

**Days earlier: Christmas at Castle Sherlock:**

_For a hermit,_ John thought, _he gets an awful lot of presents from people he barely knows. Half those boxes, I wouldn't open without calling in the bomb squad._

For example, the one from the guy at the gun shop in War.

“Well, I _am_ his best customer,” Sherlock said, defensively.

“I bet you're his most interesting one, at least.”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, as if to say, _well of course it's the same thing._

John just knew there'd be another trip out to the highly un-regulation shooting range Sherlock had carved out for himself in the woods up on his own personal mountain.

On one hand, those trips were a pain in the ass because it was damn cold out. 

On the other hand, the first time they'd gone out there had worked out really well for John. There was the gun, there was the target, and there was the distance. This was _basic_ shit, elementary school, and there just wasn't enough room for John to back away far enough to make it challenging to him. 

Even when his back hit the stone outcrop at the top of the little springbed in the hill, and there was nowhere else to go but up, it just was not difficult for him to shred the head and heart of the paper target every time. John _wanted_ it to be difficult. He knew it should be if he was going to stay in practice. 

Watching all this unfold had a fast and powerful effect on Sherlock; there were just a few seconds of gears-turning and eyes-darting and a few moments of enjoying John's slight frustration and slightly smug shrug. 

And then Sherlock's eyes settled into their darkest, greenest shade, lashes lowering, lower lip briefly nipped. By now, John was fairly sure he didn't do it _all_ on purpose. Just most of it. “You are...” Sherlock said, looking at the target, the gun, the distance. “What's the word?”

“Tell me.”

“Amazing,” Sherlock said.

There was about an inch of snow on the ground at the time. Neither one of them cared; Sherlock came towards John with startled want in his eyes and backed him up against the rocky hill. John crept up it backwards til he was nearly of a height with Sherlock, and then he let himself swoon into Sherlock's appreciative pounce. The weatherproofing of their coats and the athletic grind of their bodies was well up to the match of the cold wetness under them - the dusting beneath them was completely melted away by their heat when they were done.

 _Mm, yes, John. Go back to the present moment,_ he told himself. _Look at Sherlock's Christmas presents. Assess the risk of explosive death._

“God, those are ugly,” John said, looking at the toy guns in the box. “What the hell are they?”

“Field markers,” Sherlock said. “Originally. These are just prototypes. Nelspot 007 Splotchmarkers. Much more refined than the early ones that were fit only for shooting paint on trees and cattle.” Sherlock lifted one out. “Which is what they were used for.”

John was unimpressed. 

Sherlock read that. “It's a _prototype._ It's something new. I want to try it out.”

John thought it wasn't all that dangerous, most likely, and promised Sherlock he would, the next clear day.

As it turns out, the box from Mrs. Hudson's nephew Ernest in New York kept them occupied more immediately that night. It was one of the very few times in his life that John did not resent the power of gossip.

~~~

Sherlock would not let up on those awkward little airguns that shot paint capsules, though. The range was nonexistent, the recoil was awful, and John was completely clueless as to why Sherlock was acting like an 8-year-old with his first BB gun.

Until Sherlock said, “Shoot me.”

“What?”

Sherlock was standing in the yard, about 20 feet away from John, arms outstretched, in a strange ensemble of thrift-store clothes that didn't fit him well, doing his best to pretend to be a scarecrow. “With the paintball gun, obviously. Just do it.”

John sighed, reached for the awful thing, and sighted down the barrel at Sherlock. “Turn around,” John said.

“What?”

“Turn around, or I won't do it. I ain't gonna shoot at anything vulnerable.”

Sherlock pouted, and did so.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ John thought, and took his time backing up a few yards. From as far away as he could get at that weak range, he fired — and heard Sherlock's yelp at the same time a splotch of green paint bloomed right across that perfect ass.

“Are you OK?” John blurted.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, turning around and pointing his own long ungainly pistol right at John. “I'm fine. I'm so fine. And I do want to go hunting now. You and Lestrade have nagged me long enough. But not with Lestrade. Just us, John, you and me.”

“What do you want to hunt with _these_ guns?” John said.

Sherlock smiled, low and lusty. “You,” he said. “I want to hunt _you._ And I want you to hunt _me._ And it'll be a game, with a prize.”

John's mouth went dry at that glimpse of Sherlock's raw desire. “And the prize...for the winner...what would that be?”

“It's a prize for both, because we'll both enjoy it,” Sherlock said. “But the rule is, the paint-marked person is the one who'll have to spread his legs and _take it._ Right then and there.”

“Oh god,” John gasped, because the speed and intensity of his arousal just told him something about himself he wasn't sure he liked, and he still wanted to ravish Sherlock just for coming up with it. “And how do we make sure it's fair?”

“It's completely fair. These guns are clumsy and crude, with short range and low accuracy. You're by far the better marksman of the two of us, so you can compensate for the weaknesses in the weaponry with your natural skill. However, I'm the better tracker and strategist. Once we get out in the woods far from the house, we'll be more or less fairly matched, albeit in very different skill-sets. You have the advantage of having survived actual combat conditions; I expect you to use that, so I'll fight dirty as well.”

“Oh, it is _on.”_

Sherlock smiled. “Don't take it personally when you lose. I know you have less experience in the receiving position than I do, so I'll try to go slow at first. I do recommend you prepare yourself a bit before heading out, though.”

John laughed and said, “Bold words from a man who's gonna wind up with his face in the dirt and his ass in the air. But I know you like that, so -”

“True. Even if I lose, I still win.”

 _Sherlock Holmes in a nutshell,_ John thought.

***

Undeniable that John had lost this round. And that _he_ was the one with his face in the leaves and his ass in the air. He felt a big hand holding him down, splaying out across his back under his coat and shirt, running up his spine slowly, and another hand reaching around to open his belt buckle.

John rebelled fiercely as his jeans and underpants were yanked down hard. John squirmed and bucked and crawled, making a show of trying to escape. He heard deep, dark laughter and heard Sherlock unzipping his own pants.

“You lost fair and square, John,” Sherlock panted into his ear. “Are you trying to cheat me out of my prize? Why did you run? Why are you struggling?”

“Because it turns you on,” John said. There was a sharp intake of breath above him. _Hit a nerve,_ John thought proudly. He kept wriggling, and almost cried out when Sherlock pressed him down further. He didn't cry out when Sherlock slapped his ass, either, even though the spank was hard. “It turns me on too,” John admitted.

“I _won_ you, John,” Sherlock growled into John's ear. “You have a codeword if you really don't want this. If you don't use it, then I'm just going to take what's mine.”

John said nothing.

And then John felt his shirt and coat yanked up high, and Sherlock's mouth trailing down his spine. Roughly, Sherlock pushed John's thighs further apart, and started softly mouthing and biting his buttocks.

“Oh God,” John gasped, as Sherlock took his ass in both hands and opened him - not cruelly but not kindly either. Those lips and tongue that had been working down his back continued on down his cleft, and John gasped again when Sherlock's tongue began to flutter and dance against his anus. It felt good. Really good. So good John couldn't help but press up into it and spread his legs further, offering himself up.

Sherlock hummed in pleasure and sucked at John's hole, stabbing repeatedly with his slick, hot tongue until John started to open for him, just a little. At the feel of that, Sherlock made a weird, wild sound and brought his hand down to spank John's other cheek, hard, making a loud noise. 

John could feel one of Sherlock's hands leaving his ass to rummage around somewhere, heard the sound of a little bottle being opened one-handed, and John twitched at a certain scent...

“Gun oil? Sherlock? Really?”

“It's safe,” Sherlock muttered. That was all he could say, because his mouth was immediately back rimming John; tongue pushing hard enough to breach John's hole, then plunging inside as far as it could go, licking in long, lewd circles.

John leaned up on his elbows and dropped his head, groaning softly at the filthy, taboo pleasure of being probed and tasted so deeply _there._ Sherlock's tongue was so wet and supple, rippling inside him and dancing out again and again, getting him ready to take a long, sadistic finger next. Or two.

Muscle being carefully but firmly stretched. Obscene wet sounds. Rapid movement of long oiled fingers in and out, fucking him fast. John gasped and moaned and was just about to fuck back on Sherlock's fingers when suddenly, everything was withdrawn at once. 

Sherlock lifted John's hips roughly and mounted him like a rutting stag. 

John moaned from deep in his chest as that fat, slick cockhead pushed at his entrance, forcing him further open. That was the hardest part - and the best part for the penetrator, as he very well knew.

“John,” Sherlock said. “Relax. Let me in.”

 _It's only the fourth time,_ John thought. _Only the fourth time I've ever let you or anyone ever do this to me, and now you're takin' it as your due...because I guess it is._ He couldn't help but bite the back of his fisted hand as he felt himself begin to yield, to feel that distinctive stretch and burn. 

The lube made it easier, and so did the throaty moan from Sherlock, just above his head, as Sherlock began to carefully sink his cock downward into John's body.

“I'm gonna fuck you so deep,” Sherlock muttered into John's ear. “Make you feel every inch of me.”

John groaned and focused on his breathing, trying to relax that muscle, accepting that weird push inside that could never not feel weird. It was good though. Very good.

He felt Sherlock pull back, cockhead nearly dragging itself out of him, and yet not quite. The edge of the head pulled at his rim, and then pushed back in, deeper than before, and John cried out a little, higher-sounding than he'd expected, and angled up to draw Sherlock further in.

“Oh fuck,” John whispered loudly, enough to make sure Sherlock heard it.

Sherlock's hand clutched at the back of his head. “You should grow out your hair, John. I want it long enough to grab.” And with that, Sherlock ran his nails up John's back as his hips began to move just a little faster. John bucked under him as Sherlock's strokes grew harder and sharper, his hips beginning to slap against John's ass. John tried to crane his neck to see, to watch the rolling snap of Sherlock's body as he worked. _God damn, that man can fuck,_ John thought. _Where'd he learn how to do that?_

John had some ideas about that. Ideas that drove him mad to think about: Sherlock in a writhing cluster of anonymous men in some semi-secret Washington bathhouse, wanton and wild. Sucking and getting sucked. Fucking and getting fucked. Sherlock's creamy skin marked with bites and scratches, streaked with sweat and come – his own and other men's. Loving every second of it, transported, his face a mask of abandon and ecstasy.

Now, though – now Sherlock was pounding John into the cold West Virginia dirt, and there was nothing anonymous about it. It was _John_ he was plunging his cock in and out of, feeling the push and pull on his whole length, John who was panting and gasping underneath him, tearing up handfuls of leaves and weeds as his fingers clenched, John who was begging, “God - do it, fuck me, split me open, don't stop...”

Sherlock was slamming him so hard John's teeth rattled, and John turned his neck again and got a glimpse of Sherlock's face — sweaty, animalistic, his teeth bared — and felt the sight like it'd been branded on his cock. His poor needy cock, almost untouched, could he wriggle a hand down there...? 

“No,” Sherlock growled. “Not yet. Tell me how it feels. My cock inside you — what's it like?”

“Huge...” John moaned. “Feels so big – hard – full. _Fuck,_ the – stretch – you're so deep. Work it. Harder. Fuck me.”

Sherlock gasped a little as he thrust in quick, short stabs now, and he bit John's unscarred shoulder viciously as his body began to tense and shiver. John braced himself to feel it, and shut his eyes tight as he felt Sherlock – stop. Breathe deep. Pull himself _back_ from the edge. 

With a low sound, Sherlock lifted John a little by the inner thighs, and changed his angle, sinking in straight and deep. And to John's sweet, sharp relief, one of Sherlock's long hands came around to grasp his cock. “I like to feel you come when I'm in you,” Sherlock purred breathlessly into John's ear. “You clench up so hard, and you shiver, and you feel so good around me.”

John moaned, because it was expected. “What are you gonna do?”

“Gonna stroke you. Make you come _fast._ You want that?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock suddenly pulled his hand away, and when it came back, it was slick and tight and making a tunnel for John's dick. Every thrust of Sherlock's hips forced John's cock through Sherlock's fist, and yeah, it _was_ kind of like John's male orgy fantasy in miniature and very personal: at once being fucked and having something to fuck, and John was reduced to dropping his head to the ground and gasping for air as the whole continent between his navel and his knees was taken over by delicious violations.

And the fact that Sherlock was making John come for _his own_ pleasure, not John's, made it all the better, and John let it take him, let it make him burst and shiver and cry out as his whole body tightened and twitched. 

White light erupted behind John's eyes, and he heard the little rustling sound of his come spattering the dead leaves beneath him, and he heard a raspy groan from Sherlock right in his ear. The grip on his hips tightened, the stabs inside him grew harder, and Sherlock rode him hard through it. 

John was close to collapse when he felt the shivering power of Sherlock's orgasm, heard his cries and was moved by his helpless force, and felt amazed when Sherlock still managed to pull out of him quickly just to spill a last few hot, wet threads onto John's ass and back.

Long, long seconds for both of them to catch their breath. Sherlock crawled backward on his knees far enough to let John stretch his legs out and lay down on his stomach, face against the ground. John felt Sherlock's hand gently spread out over his lower back, caressing him and massaging his come into John's skin, in a gesture both loving and scarily possessive.

John lay down and pillowed his head on his folded arms. Then, when Sherlock said nothing, he started to get worried, so he pulled his legs back and rolled over as best he could.

Sherlock was on his knees over him, still fully dressed but for his limp, slick cock hanging out of his jeans, and looking completely stunned.

John took pity on him, lay back, and held out his arms. Sherlock folded into them, grateful for having a cue to follow.

“It's cold,” John said to him. “I want to go home. Fireplace. Bed.”

“John?”

“That was amazing. You're amazing.”

Sherlock looked at him fearfully. “You're all right with that? I didn't hurt you?”

John shifted a little as he rummaged for his pants, and felt a painful twinge. “Yeah, you hurt me a little. You didn't _harm_ me, though. Big difference.”

“Do you feel a need for sleep _now?"_ Sherlock asked. Yeah, John's eyelids had drooped for a moment. Trust him to notice.

“I know where my truck is, and it's closer. I ain't letting you leave alone. Someone might've seen us. I'll drive you back to your hearse, and you follow me. A little while later. When I've got my pants on and I can walk again. Might be a while.”

Sherlock lay down on his side beside John, head resting on his hand. To his credit, he waited. And when it occurred to Sherlock that he desperately wanted a cigarette, he'd been studying John closely enough that he realized that John might want one too, so he offered without having to be asked.

 

**Part 2: The Deerstalker**

Five days later, they were at it again. John wanted a chance to earn his honor back the very next day, but Sherlock refused utterly.

“You're sore. I can tell by the way you walk and by the way you sit. You need to be healed completely,” Sherlock had said. “For when I win again and fuck you hard again.”

John had argued strenuously at first, and then stopped arguing, because Sherlock had given him an opportunity to figure out what had been wrong with his initial strategy before going out on the hunt again, and he wasn't going to waste that. 

And if, in the interim, they mostly went slow and careful and thorough, in bed and by the fireplace, in a manner that John couldn't think of as anything but making love, well, John didn't have a big problem with that either.

But now that they were out in the woods with their paintball guns again, it was _war._ John was not about to repeat his last mistake.

He kept close to cover. He listened. He only moved when he felt he had to. He wasn't wasting time with footprints anymore, he was more interested in bird and animal sounds. Forest creatures get vocal and silent at different times. They warn each other when there are unfamiliar beings, potential predators, in the vicinity.

John knew there were many wooded acres to cover, and Sherlock could be anywhere in them. John also knew that _he_ was very good at moving silently as a matter of second nature, and Sherlock only as a matter of training. 

John crept slowly through a patch of dried brush along a frozen creek bed. To his left, there was tall grass for hundreds of yards. To his right, there were woods. Goosebumps on his skin told him he might be close - but then, that might just be the cold.

Hard to tell.

Then a lucky break happened in a millisecond: a popping sound, and then a panicked deer ripped out of the woods and leapt the creek - doe, white tail flying, almost over John's head. She was so close, John saw in an instant that the red streak on her flank wasn't blood; reflexively he turned and fired in the direction she'd come from. Heard a yelp.

John stood still.

Sherlock came out from behind the sparse cover of thin trees and rhododendrons. He was holding his hands over his head, and he turned to let John see the blue paint-spray across his thrift-shop coat, on his right side.

John stared at Sherlock across the frozen creek. What would he do? Would he run, like John had?

Sherlock didn't. He kept his hands up and walked slowly toward John.

“You made a mistake,” John called out. “You heard a noise and you shot at it, didn't you?”

Sherlock said nothing. That in itself was amazing. He just kept walking through the knee-high dead grass. John stepped carefully over the frozen stream to meet him. 

A sharp rush of arousal ran through him when Sherlock came close to him, ran his eyes over John's face and body - and then dropped to his knees at John's feet, and bowed his head.

John sucked in breath hard, and wrestled with his own desires. The paintball pistol had no safety catch, and pitiful as it was, would still be dangerous at point-blank range...and knowing all that, he _still_ placed the muzzle at the soft spot between Sherlock's jaw and his ear. He still grabbed Sherlock's hair, and pressed Sherlock's face against his groin. 

He did all this because he knew it would make Sherlock's eyes go dark and wild, and make Sherlock nuzzle his stiffening cock through his jeans. And John let him do that for a little while, getting harder all the time. John knew he could just open his fly and let his cock bounce out, and Sherlock would suck it gladly, and that would be....

So good, but not his prize. Not what he wanted. John stood back sharply, making Sherlock fall forward. He grabbed the back of Sherlock's coat collar and _dragged_ him all the yards back to the brush and the slim tree.

Once they were there, he kept the paintball gun trained on Sherlock (a lot less scary aimed at his chest from five-feet-something of height) and just said, “Lie still on your back. Don't move. Put your hands up around that tree.”

Oh yes, the wild look in Sherlock's eyes was worth it. John threw his little pack off his shoulders and took out a short rope. Loop one, knot one around Sherlock's left wrist, length of rope around behind the tree; loop two, knot two around Sherlock's right wrist. There. His prey was tethered. Sherlock could probably find a way out if he _really_ wanted to, but it seemed he didn't, and John had some faith in his prize-winning Boy Scout knots.

John knelt down carefully, straddling Sherlock's hips for the moment, reaching in his knapsack again. 

“John,” Sherlock said. “Tell me what you're going to do to me.” He was already beginning to move against John in a hungry lewd way, needy and eager.

“You like being tied up, don't you?” John said, as his hand found what he wanted.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“You like a gun at your head, don't you?”

Sherlock drew in breath sharply, and to John's surprise, lowered his gaze away from John's. He didn't want to say so. John had felt the further swelling against his inner thigh, though.

John let the object in his hand flash, yanking it out of its sheath so that the polished steel caught the weak winter sun. “It's okay,” he said. “You don't have to admit it. I already know.” He watched Sherlock's eyes register the razor-sharp hunting knife.

John breathed deep. He didn't think he was wrong about this. He _really_ didn't.

He turned slowly and pressed the dull side of the knife against Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock shivered under him.

“We been naggin' you to go deer hunting,” John said calmly. “You've never done that, have you? You're all into anatomy but you've never hunted something and then killed and gutted your prey. You've never killed because you were hungry and you needed to harvest an animal to feed you. You don't really know how it's done. Except in theory.”

John slid the knife point under Sherlock's shirt collar, and sliced through the threads of every button, straight down his chest, laying him half-naked to the cold and watching his body blooming with goosebumps and his nipples hardening.

John leaned low and murmured into Sherlock's ear, _“I've_ done it. _I've_ hunted before. I've field dressed a deer.” He ran the cold of the blade so gently down Sherlock's stomach. “I know how to slit the belly open and clean out the gut. I've had to cut people open too.”

Sherlock was trembling beneath him. John sat up and ran his other hand down over the front of Sherlock's jeans. He was so, _so_ hard.

“You talk a lot, most of the time,” John said. “You're so quiet now. I want to take your pants off. Tell me that's all right.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes. Yes, John, that's all right. Please.”

John smiled. “I'd tell you to do it for me, but you can't.” He tucked the knife into his teeth and unbuckled Sherlock's belt and opened his fly and yanked the jeans and underwear both down to his knees; Sherlock bucked his hips up to help him, and yeah, that cock was swollen and red and wet, foreskin rolled back below the head, so obviously John was doing something right. John kept tugging on the jeans til they were all the way down to Sherlock's ankles. 

“Gotta get 'em down low.” He undid the laces of one of Sherlock's hiking boots and pulled it off, just enough to get him out of one leg of his pants. He lifted Sherlock's ankle to his mouth and bit it hard through the thick sock. 

“I gotta be able to spread your legs as wide as they'll go,” John said. Sherlock moaned at that, loudly, and John looked down at him in maddened desire – Sherlock _wanted_ this, so badly, and the least John could do was...

“Now,” John said, shifting position to lift and drape Sherlock's legs around him. He ground his own denim-clad hips against Sherlock's bare cock and balls to give him harsh pressure and friction. John braced one hand on the ground and leaned forward again with the knife in his dead-steady hand. “I know sometimes people think at first that _you're_ the killer. 'Cause if things had been different, you could have been. You got the mind for it.”

Sherlock bit his lip as the flat of the blade brushed the head of his cock and continued back upwards.

“But I think sometimes, in the dark places in your mind,” John said almost calmly as he watched Sherlock's eyes track the movements of the blade, “that maybe you want to be the perfect victim too. I seen the way Jamie affected you. She wasn't that great, though. She wasn't worthy of you. If you found a _worthy_ killer....well I wonder. Do you ever think about what that'd feel like? Your body being methodically destroyed by someone who _knows what they're doing?”_

Sherlock closed his eyes, and when John pressed the blade up against his neck again, Sherlock shivered so hard that John had to pull the knife back a little bit. Sherlock had almost caused him to breach the skin.

“God, look at you. It _does_ turn you on. You're so fucking hard.” John leaned down to nearly-whisper in Sherlock's ear. “I bet if I slit your throat right now, I could still make you come before you die.”

Sherlock gasped so loud and arched up so fast, John had to jerk away, because he realized that Sherlock had almost come right then and there, at those words. 

And that was too soon; John still had a lot of ideas he wanted to put into play. And still, it stuck with him: he was _right_ when he said that. _Jesus Christ, this was going too far._

John stuck the knife down into the ground as he kissed down Sherlock's chest for a little while, bringing Sherlock back from the edge, contenting himself with licking and sucking at nipples until Sherlock strained against the ropes around his wrists.

“I wouldn't,” John murmured. “I could only kill you once but I can fuck you again and again.”

Then John went to his backpack again, pulled off the lid of the jar of Vaseline, and tried not to use too much as he pulled his knife back out of the ground. He spread and lifted Sherlock's legs, and waited until the observant genius really registered what was being done to him.

Loud moan from Sherlock. Who was being penetrated with the long, rigid bone handle of John's hunting knife.

“Imagine if someone was seeing us now,” John whispered. “With you at my mercy like this. A decent person would kill me on the spot.” 

“John, it's not...I like this, and you know I like it. And you're doing it because you know I like it--”

“Out in the open, Sherlock. Dangerous. From a distance...no one hears your 'yes'...”

John couldn't use too much grease, couldn't let the handle get too slick, but working the knife hilt slowly in and out of Sherlock's entrance was _hypnotic_ \- the methodical space it opened in John's mind; the way Sherlock writhed and trembled... 

John moved it slowly, drew it around in slow circles to open Sherlock up, then went back to thrusting it in and out.

Then, finally, John pulled the knife handle out and thrust the blade back into the ground. He pushed Sherlock's legs up high onto his chest. 

“John?”

“I _did_ win,” John said, and aligned the head of his cock just right, and pushed forward steadily, groaning softly at the sensation of tight constriction and slick heat, Sherlock stretching and opening for him, spreading his legs wider to take more. 

In this position, Sherlock could barely move, but he tried, struggling to wrap his legs around John and draw him in further as John started to fuck him with long, rolling strokes. 

John sat up on his knees and pulled Sherlock's hips up into his lap. He struggled to keep his eyes open and trained on Sherlock's transported, wanton face. Yes, it was so good to take him this way, watching every wave of sensation showing in his mouth, his eyes, the way his body arched and wriggled, tensed and relaxed. 

Sherlock was flexible enough that John could lunge forward and bend him nearly in half, long legs against his shoulders and plush ass getting slapped by John's hips and Sherlock's full, heavy cock and balls bouncing with each thrust of John's, back and forth, push and pull. “Holy _fuck,_ you feel good,” John half-panted, half-whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said brokenly. “I do. _God,_ I do, you make me feel so good.” 

Sherlock's eyes unfocused, his back arching, willing to let all sorts of bad porno dialogue come out of his mouth, fuck, John was never ever going to get tired of seeing and feeling him like this, _turning_ him into this, brushing the edge of all those desires to just keep him in that state. 

So John dropped his mental filter and said it all: “I want to keep you like this. Tied up and spread out and begging for me, I just want to keep my dick in you all day, just filling you up with it til you scream, you're so....” 

That last word froze on John's tongue, and so he set a faster pace, long strokes nearly all the way out and then back in hard, and oh God, he was not going to last long, and dammit, he didn't want to, if he'd won and Sherlock was his for now, he was going to come so, so hard. 

“Beautiful,” he finally choked out, syllables broken by hard, fast thrusts and gasps for breath as the tension in his balls finally swelled and broke and he started to come, deep inside, fingers sinking into the flesh of Sherlock's taut thigh.

With the last few pulses, John pulled out fast and shot white threads of come over Sherlock's cock and balls and stomach. Sherlock made a desperate, high wheezing sound as he watched and felt the heat and wetness of it, marking him.

John leaned forward on one hand for a moment, letting Sherlock's legs relax and sink to either side of him, white light almost like fainting pulsing up behind his eyes, hips still moving gently between Sherlock's legs. 

When he finally trusted himself not to fall over, John ran his hand through the viscous mess and used its slickness to stroke Sherlock off, hard and fast and ruthless. 

“Fuck....yes...oh god...oh god... _John!”_ Sherlock ejaculated as he ejaculated, his body arching up so hard some of his come almost hit John's face, but mostly went on John's hand and his own stomach and chest. He thrust up convulsively for a long, long time, his cries almost sobs. 

When he flopped back down gracelessly, his eyes fluttered shut and John had to check that he hadn't actually lost consciousness. Sherlock hadn't, of course, he was just trembling out the last aftershocks and looking at John with an expression so dilated and unfocused it was almost alarming.

John laid Sherlock's cock down on his belly gently and ran his hand through their mingled semen, mixing it further together. _Can't tell the difference,_ he thought. _It's ours._ With a little laugh he ran a stripe of it up Sherlock's chest, went back for more and smeared a streak across Sherlock's cheek, a messy, possessive caress. He dragged his slimy fingers across Sherlock's mouth, felt Sherlock's lips and tongue moving to meet them, and sucking them as if their coating tasted divine. 

John bent low and kissed him - for the first time since they'd left their vehicles - and Sherlock's mouth felt sweet and pliant, opening slowly and lifting his tongue to meet John's languorously, sensually.

Sherlock didn't seem to care if John ever untied him or not, but John cared an awful lot and it had to be done _now._ Quickly John crawled up and did so carefully, checking Sherlock's wrists and hands carefully for injury, abrasion, circulation problems, massaging them gently, getting them to stop shaking, and working in warmth. “You'd _tell_ me if I hurt you, wouldn't you?” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “Unless I liked it and was afraid you would stop.”

“Oh sweet Jesus no, that is not okay.” John said, shaking his head. “Really, really not.”

John reached in the pack for two last items, a rag to clean them off with, and a thick coarse Army blanket to wrap up Sherlock in, because he was shivering and the sex-heat was fading fast in the cold, and he was a moist, sweaty mess. Sherlock folded with surprising ease into the blanket and John's arms, smelling like paint and sweat and come and earth and leather and cigarettes and winter.

While he still held the blanket around them, John helped Sherlock maneuver his weak limbs back into his pants and coat and that one stray boot. “When I get you home,” John said. “You're having a hot bath and a hot toddy and some hot soup by the hot fire, so help me God...”

“Is there anything _else_ that's hot that you have for me?” Sherlock whispered into his ear as John held him close for the body heat and caressed his back.

“You're insatiable,” John said in amazement.

“For now, yeah,” Sherlock said. “There'll be times when I won't think about sex for weeks or months on end. You should enjoy this to the fullest while it lasts.”

“And hoard up some good memories to jack off to when you're miles away in your weird mind, right?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock was trying to stand, on legs as wobbly as a newborn colt's. John pushed himself up to help, and felt his knee protest. “But until further notice...it's whenever you want me. And I have to say I hope...whenever I want you...”

“Oh God yes. But it's about a quarter mile uphill to my truck, so not in the next half hour, alright?”

Sherlock smiled as he started to regain his grace, pulling himself up a rock outcropping where the creek split the stones in the hillside. “I'll wait until after the bath and the soup. By the fire sounds good.”

“Did I actually manage to make you hungry?”

“The human body does tend to crave more sustenance as the temperature drops. It's all for the best if the soup has more protein than usual, as nutrients are burned at a higher rate...”

“I'll feed you more protein later, slut,” John muttered, climbing up the same rocks behind him, still hauling the pack full of gun and knife and lube and rope and blanket, all of which he'd packed with desire for sure - and something resembling love, in his most fragile of hopes.


End file.
